


Sweet Chariot

by roxymissrose



Series: This Small Dark Place [8]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Child Abuse, Child Death, Double Anal Penetration, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Underage Rape/Non-con, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:49:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21591013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: Pain begot pain, misery sought to create more misery. This was the way of the world.
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Series: This Small Dark Place [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/284478
Comments: 69
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to JJ1564, for your support and your help towards making this a better story. Any goofy mistakes found are all mine, because I just couldn't stop fiddling with the darn thing.
> 
> This is the turning point, and it gets worse for Jensen from this point on. Not necessarily more graphic, but I don't mind answering questions the reader might have.

"You're old, just barely passable. You've got...things, lines, around your eyes, and your mouth. Your lips are attractive, I'll give you that. Full lips are always attractive. Your skin though – ugh. Dry." 

The man in the black thrall uniform shuddered delicately as he circled a kneeling Jensen. He stopped, and ran his thin fingers through Jen's hair, critically, appraising. "You have passable hair. Your physique is decent. Smooth, soft...you definitely need to be thinner, I think."

The instructor continued his inspection, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes, his gaze like arrows. Finally, he snapped his fingers and Jensen leaped to his feet, hoping he hadn't looked like an arthritic hippo. His hands twitched as he automatically sought to cover his cock, but he managed to keep them down at his thighs. The instructor noted the slight movement, but only nodded, apparently in approval. Jensen let out a small breath of relief. He had no idea what the punishments were—at the moment, he had no idea what the rules were, so he kept form as he remembered it, and did his best to look attentive and engaged.

"As I've said, you're old, already at an age most bodythralls are retired. But Masters have their likes and dislikes and we have none. I myself was a bodythrall," the man said, and Jensen wasn't sure, but was that a tinge of pride in his words? Jensen managed to transmute a shudder into a blink. 

"My services were so appreciated that Master—my original master—sold me to a school, and now, I train the finest thralls in all of Columbia," he stated as he threw his arms wide in a dramatic fashion, before dropping them and backtracking a bit on his boast. "At least on the East Shore. So. Your master is certainly kind, and extremely generous. As a result of your age, it seems we're both to be spared the humiliation of failure. I'm not to instruct you in the finer arts, just the basics." The instructor made a face. "It's almost a waste of my time," he muttered, before going on. 

"Breath work, appearance, preparation work...all the things you should have learned out of toddler-hood." He leaned back and stared down his nose at Jensen's faint gasp.

"Oh, I know how you household thralls look down on us. Treat us like we're brainless because we haven't the same sort of schooling, nor wasted time running about the play-yards like savages, hated us because we don't get wrinkled and callused and burnt under the sun. While you house thralls, even hulking, filthy _field_ thralls, have the temerity to imagine you're above us, don't forget— _we're_ the ones they write books about, and songs, perform plays on the stage, and in cinema, all about us. So don't you dare look at me like that—don't you _dare."_

Jensen dropped his eyes against the instructor's steadily mounting rage. Most thralls thought ill of the bodythralls, but he never had. He knew, from what his mam told him, that out of them all, a body thrall's life was a punishment from the day they were born.

Jensen didn't look down on the instructor, he was _afraid_ of him. Because pain begot pain, misery sought to create more misery, and Jensen was squarely in his sights. "Whatever you desire of me in the service of my master, Sir."

"Well, aren't you a polite one…." The instructor murmured, as he thumbed through a small, leather-bound journal. "Let's see what tasks Master Jared has set for us."

Jensen closed his eyes and hoped with every single atom of his being that Eir and Freyr were looking out for him.

* * * 

"And you make the paste by adding a bit of goat's milk to it, like so."

Jensen sat, naked and ill at ease, on the edge of a stone bench, frowning down into a little pot balanced on his knees. He wiped away annoying beads of sweat collecting at his hairline—it was always just a touch too warm for him in the bath hall, and at the moment they were seated out of the way near the copper boilers. The headGirl of the baths sat with him, eager to show him what to do. Lifting a small jug of the goat's milk from a tray on the bench, she dribbled a bit into the pot. 

"Beat it swiftly, Lucky." She preceded to demonstrate, whisking various powders Jensen had measured into the bowl under her direction together with the milk she'd added, briskly stirring until the mixture began to turn into a loose paste. After it set up, he'd be expected to slather it over his legs, his torso, and his privates—just one part of learning to prepare oneself for the master. 

So far, he'd been plucked and tweezed and made to learn how to do it to himself. He'd had to sit in an uncomfortably warm room covered with oil, all to soften his skin and removed the "nasty, calloused, common bits" of his person. He'd had to make a notebook, just to keep track of all the prep work he had to do—to remember when, and how to do it. He could live his whole life without the enemas...they were stupid, and painful, and it wasn't like either one of them didn't know where shit came from. Jensen looked around, quick and furtive. He was beginning to feel like the instructor stalked the inside of his head as well as his body. 

He'd been spared having his fingers dyed red—apparently a practice from over the seas that was catching fire in Columbia, and none of his body hair was being permanently removed—at this point. And as Jared had so kindly prevented it, his legs were not going to be undergoing some horrible, experimental procedure to—to—

"Jensen! Let the paste sit too long and it will burn you." The matron dropped a bowl of hot water and soft linens onto the end of the bench. "Be sure you wipe your skin with the oils after." 

She set down a tall-necked, light green bottle full of oil and bits of herbs. Jen watched the hypnotic swirl of the herbs as they settled, and sighed—silently, in the safety of his head. _Paste, then water, then oil, then brush milk all over, and then a bath and it was. All. So. Pointless._

"There you go. Smells nice, doesn't it?" headGirl derailed the downward spiral of his thoughts, leaving Jensen sort of faintly grateful to her. Sort of—he remembered all too well how thrilled the woman had been when Jensen was sent to her. Positively besides herself with glee.

She was—fine. She was okay. She was nothing like the evil-hearted old crone who'd ruled the baths when he first came as a child. She'd died a few years after he'd been bought, and Jensen could say he honesty never missed her and neither did anyone else. Whether she rested in peace or not, was no one's concern. He doubted she ever got a paper boat burned for her on All Soul's day.

The new headGirl of the baths was a...well, Jensen thought, _busybody_ was a charitable term for the woman. She could be a heedless kind of cruel, while claiming everything she did or said was out of concern. Right.

As soon as she'd risen from stocking the bath to running it, she'd made it her mission to prettify Jensen, whether he was interested or not. Had told him quite a few times that he'd been wasted by not being trained; as if being consigned to a life like that was something to be desired. She'd been quietly disciplined more than once by Mistress for having a loose and thoughtless tongue, and Jensen was certain that she would most likely have been demoted or sold off if Mistress Patricia hadn't been so suddenly stolen from them.

"Such a pity we're not doing makeup, or any piercings." She huffed. "Well, at least we have a start. I'll see if I can get the young master's ear. Such a beautiful canvas shouldn't be wasted. I'm sure Master Gerolt would agree with me." 

She smiled at Jensen as if she hadn't been mulling over how to get the master to mutilate him. Jensen stared at her, struck with how lizard-like she looked; there wasn't a jot of warmth in her reptilian eyes. He didn't bother to smile back, just concentrated on meticulously wiping the warm oil on his skin, making sure every bit the paste had touched was covered, peered around the bath hall as he did. He caught a few bath girls quickly looking away from him, and understood. His decline in position had been swift, and now he was an object of speculation—or had been until recently. Now he was on the lowest rung of the thrall ladder. The Masters might prize their bodythralls, and treat them like pets, but the Household saw bodythralls much, much differently. 

The world of the bath hall was another matter altogether. 

The bath hall had never been a place he was welcomed in. It wasn't a place he was particularly unwelcome in, either. The halls had little connection to the house, or to the kitchen, or the land. It was its own world, with its own rules and its own master—outside of the Estate's Master, of course. Any time he entered the hall, he only had the favor of the master to protect him from sharp tongues, snide asides, and rumor—the subtle sabotage that was a thrall's only weapon. He might have been a favorite of the house, but here in this world he'd only ever been an ordinary thrall.

"Oh goodness, let me do it. You're so slow." The headGirl took his arm, and began brushing milk over his still stinging skin. "You know, we could probably get rid of these spots, too. Oh, I know the instructor said the young master wants them not to be touched, but I wonder…."

Jensen retreated into his head and let the woman ramble on. Whatever she wanted, whatever he wanted, mattered not at all. The word rested on the masters. He remembered how horrible it had been, those first hours on the estate, how cold and indifferent the people who were now his major supports had seemed to him then. He remembered how frightened and alone he'd felt. He knew, too, how awful and lonely and desperate a bodythrall's life was. No wonder some of them clung so desperately to their masters—who else did they have to turn to?

* * * 

Jen was enjoying a rare day off. The lessons he'd had the day before had been intense, and master Jared had ordered that Jensen not come back to his rooms—or to instructions—until he was satisfied that Jen had recovered. The weather was just beginning to turn, a little bit warmer, a little bit windier, and speaking of wind, a breeze grabbed the hem of his gray uniform jacket and whipped it around his legs. He struggled to hold the edges of the jacket in place, and whirled when he heard chuckling behind him, embarrassed to be caught out.

"Hoo, there, Lucky. What are you doing out on this fine afternoon?" Mark smiled, and in this light, it was clear to see the edge of sadness always lurking in the corners of his smile these days. 

"Young Master gave me holidays—two of them." 

Mark frowned. "Oh, did he now? And how are you, my little Lucky? Are your, ah, lessons going well?"

Knowing that Mark knew full well the nature of his lessons and the need for a holiday, Jensen felt his cheeks burning, making his embarrassment—and anger—worse; he was certain he'd flushed so red, he was visible to any airship flying overhead. "They are fine, my lessons are fine, _husbandman's assistant._ "

"Ah. Fair enough. Sorry," Mark said, and his own cheeks flushed faintly pink. He bowed his head, then gave Jen a sly wink. "On to more pleasant things?" and smiled wider when Jensen smiled back.

"Like what?"

"Come along, young Lucky, come along." He held out his arm, elbow crooked, and waited for Jensen to link arms with him, then led him down to the garage. "There's been a new addition, two, actually."

* * * 

Jensen couldn't say that what sat in the garage was what he expected, but he was fascinated by what he found.

There, parked where Old Reliable used to sit, was a huge, multi-colored, glistening yacht of a car. It was black and red and purple—Padalecki colors—with bright chrome trim. 

William was sitting near it on a rickety old thing that looked like it might have done duty as a milking stool once upon a time. His pipe was clenched in his teeth, though miracles of miracles, not in use. He seemed to be contemplating the car, glowing in the light that streamed from the overhead windows.

It was really quite dramatic, Jen thought, the way the light highlighted the sensuous curve of the car's deep purple fenders, struck little stars along the sweep of its chrome grill. The color and shape of the car looked so rich and smooth he itched to sweep his hands along its metal flanks. Mark echoed Jen's feeling. "Wow, that's quite a beauty he's got himself."

William nodded. "Yup. It's custom from the floor up, a made-to-order." he said. "'S'all the rage right now. Should make quite the picture, Hisself behind the wheel an' all. Kinda like a cow pat on a porcelain plate," he chortled. 

"Now, now, Will,"Mark scolded him. "That's a mighty generous description of the old man." 

Jen bit his lip to keep from laughing. He loved it whenever Will and Mark got together. They were entirely too entertaining. He watched them back and forth with each other, until Mark gestured for Jen to come over, and he trotted across the garage floor to where they stood. 

"Eh, Lucky, forgot to introduce you to the newest member of the staff. This fellow here," Mark turned and banged on the bonnet, and a head popped up over the side. 

"Hey, mind yourself!" The person glaring at Mark was a tall, blonde, attractive boy. Man, Jensen amended when he strode out from around the front of the car and held his hand out to Jensen. "Jake," he said. "Driver and nursemaid to this behemoth." He tossed a glance back towards the car; it was a look full of fondness. 

"Yeah, like you're not already harboring unnatural feelings for that thing," Mark laughed.

Jake slapped a slightly grease-stained hand over his heart, and pretended to stagger in horror. "Gertrude, you ignore this man. He has no soul."

Shaking his head, Will laughed at their antics. "She's all yours, Jake. Carve out whatever space you need for 'er, and give us a list of tools and all. Don't give it directly to master, boy—you seek out me, or Landsman, or the masterHouseboy, Jim. Oh, and expect our Tech to come breathin' down your neck. He's going to be quite excited, that one."

Will grunted a bit as he heaved himself up from the milk stool—Jake was there to grab his elbow and help him stand. "Thanks for that. And son, the best advice I can give you is not to have anything to do with Master or his ilk outside of driving his car. It was a damn fine estate, but since the mistress passed, there's been a bad change. Hard life for a slave."

Jake just nodded. "I hear you, and I thank you for the information. I'll keep it in mind." Jake turned his attention then from Will to Jen. "You like what you see, young one?" he grinned, and Jensen nearly combusted before he realized Jake meant the car. 

"Oh yes, it's very impressive. My former master Patrick had an electric sedan—though nothing as pretty as this—and it was a wonderfully smooth ride. We all quite liked it." He had a quick, pleasant flash of memory; himself as a tiny boy sitting in the rumble seat of Master Patrick's sedan, clutching a picnic basket and smiling with excitement as the road whizzed past them.

"Well, when it's allowed, we can go for rides in it, you and me and Mark. Maybe a roomgirl or two as well," he laughed, and Jen froze inside. He didn't think the idea of someone calling for the defenseless little roomgirls would ever _not_ turn him to ice.

Mark came over to him and laid a warm hand on his shoulder. "He's not talking about the little ones like Trinny, he means the feisty, evil ones like Annie."

Mark's sly comment shook a laugh out of Jen and helped him thaw a bit. 

As a toddler, Annie had been as sweet as Trinny, but she'd certainly grown into a sharp-tongued one, tough as rawhide and sharp as a blade. 'Cook loved her, Jim respected her, and even Master Gerolt seemed to take steps to avoid crossing paths with her. 

She was the same age as Jensen, keeping her safe from most of Gerolt's comrades, though Jen had seen her in the kitchen late at night as well, whispered voices and muffled tears that he ignored for her sake. He glanced at Jake and thought, now how would he handle Annie—and would he even survive an attempt? 

Mark chuckled. "I see those wheels turning, Lucky. Don't you dare go there. Poor Jake doesn't deserve to be served up on a platter like pig's meat."

"What?" Jensen giggled. "I'm not thinking a thing," he said. Mark grinned wide, the warmest smile Jen had seen on the man in some time. He wrapped his arm around Jen's thin shoulders, and squeezed. 

"Ah, Lucky. You have no idea what a gem you are."

* * * 

Time passed quickly; all too soon, Jensen was healed, and back to his lessons, back to his daily reminder that his life was not his own. This day, the instructor had breathing exercises on the schedule. Jensen hated breathing exercises so much. The hated exercises involved enduring steadily escalating pain, while keeping his breath even and steady. Learning not to give vent to pain. During those sessions, he hated Master Gerolt completely, so deeply, it was almost ecstasy.

Instructor was just finishing lacing a series of thin needles across Jen's shoulders; nothing he did left permanent marks as he'd been ordered by Jared not to. When he considered the lesson complete, he took pictures, and removed the needles, cleaned Jensen and then had Jensen clean the room. Earlier, his breathing exercises had involved keeping tubes of various sizes in his mouth and throat. Those lessons had frightened him very much. The panicky feeling of not being able to breathe had been difficult to overcome. Instructor had beat him for crying, for losing control and panicking. 

"Tomorrow, you learn something new." Instructor laid out a series of belts and buckles on a table. "Master Gerolt is having a party at the end of the month and he wants you to serve. " 

Jensen kept his head down, eyes on the floor. He didn't want to know what the tangle of straps and buckles were. He hoped they weren't some new restraint system. He hadn't taken well to any kind of restraints so far, much to Instructor's irritation. A tear squeezed out, rolling down his cheek to leave a round, damp spot on the floor.

Instructor sucked his teeth in annoyance. 

"You are really a waste of time and money, Jensen. You cry in the restraints, you cry whether I use a flogger or a paddle, you cry under blindfolds— _really_ Jensen. What are you good for except as a—a—water-feature? I should recommend Master install you in the garden. Oh, go on, boy—you're dismissed."

* * * 

When they gathered in the kitchen for dinner, or while doing the few chores he was still allowed, Jensen had time to notice that Jake the driver and Mark seemed to gravitate towards each other. Mark worked most days from dawn to dusk with masterHusbandman, but managed to chip some time out of his daily work to spend with Jake; picking up the workings of the sedan, tinkering with things that were mysterious and unknown to Jensen. It was clear to Jen how much Mark enjoyed working with the cars. masterHusbandman was keen enough to notice as well, and eventually decided, along with Landsman and Wagonhandler that Mark's place was more properly with the estate's vehicles.

They approached Jim with the proposition that Mark once again shift his assignment, and after a bit of brow-beating and some loudly expressed opinion on William's part, Jim agreed—thus letting go of the final, infinitesimally small shred of hope he'd had that Mark would come back to where he belonged, in Jim's opinion. Jensen was there for their entire conversation/discussion, quietly sitting in the dark corner he'd sneaked into to do some of the monthly ordering for Jim. Jensen felt for him, he really did. Jim's disappointment was palpable, but in the end, there was only one choice. Good, old, crusty, grumpy Jim—he really was awfully indulgent when it came to his former assistant. The bottom line was he'd do nearly anything if it pleased Mark. Jensen shook his head. One would think Mark was the old man's son, the way he doted on him—in his own grumpy way.

It was only a few days later when Jim spoke with the master; barely a day after that, Mark was in his new assignment. Soon there were several more cars on the estate, a mix of electric and steam. Mark seemed particularly enamored of a big old steam van, a rust-blighted, second hand thing almost as ugly as Old Reliable. He shared with Jensen that he planned someday to transport horses in it. He'd begun looking into selling and buying horses—not the massive Percherons that pulled the thrall wagons, but lithe, fast horses meant to race. Master Jared had expressed some interest in the plan, and Mark would do what he could to foster that interest. 

"It'll get the little master out to other estates, and—call on the Four—away from the old man," he'd confided to Jim, Jen and a few trusted thralls as they sat over coffee one evening in the kitchen.

"Smart, that," said the thrall who'd acted as nurse to the damaged little boy Jensen had helped take care of not long ago. "Do what you can to separate them, Mark. I'm worried, though...separating 'em might not to be enough anymore. The boy took readily enough to his sire's games." 

Jensen felt a flare of anger—who did they think they were, to speak of the master like that? 

Mark just smiled, patted Jen's knee under the table, and they went on to speak of something else.

* * * 

Jensen began to be suspicious of Jake; he'd begun to wonder just what it was that Mark had seen in him that was positive. He'd catch Jake strolling in from the field thrall cottages, the section where mams and their toddlers lived. He'd see him playing with the toddlers, bringing them and their mams small gifts, just the kind of things thralls were so grateful to have—tea, sugar, cloth, fresh fruits.  
Jensen began to worry that Jake was the same kind of man that Gerolt was. Jensen took to watching the _way_ the man played with the toddlers, making up all sorts of clever games that earned the little ones prizes: cookies, little wrapped candies, second-hand little clockworks. Master, of course, was more than willing to indulge Jake in this, and insinuated himself into their games. He sat at the sidelines, watching them dash around an indoor makeshift track Jake was allowed to set up in the garage, occasionally the master gave out little prizes as well, sometimes demanding kisses and hugs in return. It made Jensen shudder, watching them, knowing there was no one, no way to keep it from happening.

As the weather brightened from early spring to mid-spring, Jake gathered the little ones around him to help with the cars, from the smallest tots just learning how to walk, to the ones in their last toddler years. They washed the trucks and cars, climbing in and out and in general, treating the estate vehicles like their own play-yard. They cleaned the cars, or ran the "obstacle" course Jake set up, climbing ropes. They got swimming lessons in an old tank Jake set up, their toddler dresses set aside, as they leaped screaming, naked as jaybirds, into the water, or played _rabbit and fox_ in the bushes, the object of which was to silently and stealthily hide. The prize was given to the toddler who could hide the longest and be the quietest...those games Jake judged all alone.

Even the mothers helped when they were allowed free time. It was nice for all of them, toddlers and mothers included, to have a few minutes when the only thing that mattered was a bit of fun—and when Jake could manage, an extra meal. 

It was a new thing for the whole estate, and most thought it was a good thing, this toddlers having a chance to be children for the short time that they were. Jensen was torn between his suspicions regarding Jake and his wish for the toddlers to have something good. As for the master, Gerolt never complained about the use of estate resources; he watched the toddlers avidly, hot eyes glittering above ruddy cheeks, exchanging small, oily smiles with Jake. 

The days grew longer and warmer. Jake sometimes went off with one or two of the toddlers; he'd always come back alone, looking a little rumpled and red-faced. Jensen was beyond suspicions now, and began to hate Jake, hated when he heard his voice calling out for the little ones. It was only when Mark would appear, joining in the games with Jake, that Jensen's watchfulness would ease somewhat. As long as Mark was there, the toddlers were safe as possible.

* * * 

It was coming up on the middle days of Freyr's month, and the estate was bustling. The preparations weren't as elaborate as the Yule season, or Thanksgiving, but the Padalecki estate had always celebrated and Master Gerolt continued the tradition. More than likely, Jensen thought, he just hadn't been aware of it and since no one canceled it, the observation of it played on unnoticed, like an iconoscope yapping into an empty room.

This particular Saturday morning was an official day of rest, made that much more special by Gerolt being out of the state for a week. There was a subtle air of celebration all around. Jensen took advantage of it by gently nudging Jared in the direction of excusing Jen from the endless instruction and preparation that his days had become. Jared had declared, as if the thought was strictly his own, that they were taking a day all to themselves. 

Instructor would have been proud of the way Jen had subtly influenced his master—and then had him beat bloody at the posts. But Jensen was smart enough to slip under the man's notice, and clever enough to cloud Jared's mind, just a bit, just enough. After all, wasn't putting his master to ease part of his training? 

Jen had begged a picnic basket out of 'Cook, who gave it over with a lot of grumbling and harrumphing and calling Jen back to her, in order to shove another treat for the master into the basket, or a treat she knew was one of Jen's favorites. 

Huffing and puffing under the weight of the overloaded basket, he caught up with Jared in the field. Jared had outright laughed at the sight of Jensen staggering towards him, red-faced but grinning, and that was worth any amount of work. They'd headed out past the vegetable garden, which was leafing out, and would soon yield the first crop. Jensen inhaled deeply. It was glorious to smell the bright scent of vegetables, the sweet, heavy scent of flowers in bloom—it was a wonderful change from oil and rubber and leather. The hum of bees weaving in and out of the fruit trees' branches, some of which were just beginning to sway with the weight of new, green fruit. It was wonderfully reminiscent of long ago days when Mistress still lived, and Jared and Jensen only had to be Jared and Jensen.

They walked on, both of them laughing when Jared had to jump out of the way of a messenger on a green and white roperpede. As he zigged around the boys, he tossed a "So sorry" behind himself, and an "Official business!" before tearing around a corner.

"I wonder what that was all about?" Jared mused, watching the clouds of dust the roperpede left behind settle again. 

"No idea, Master," Jensen murmured. He was careful to never call Jared by his name in public; instructor had let it be known that it was an important part of his training—probably the most important. Not even on a day like today, with few rules in play, could make him forget. "Seems like it's heading towards the house." He glanced over to Jared, caught the faint frown creasing his brow. "Do you want to go back, do you think staff might need you to receive the message…?"

Jared shook his head. "No, I can receive it in the evening just as well as now. If it's very important, Jim will send someone for me."

Jensen was secretly very pleased. If Jared was staying, that meant he was staying as well. He inhaled fresh air greedily, and smiled up into of the sun, eyes closed so that he could devote himself to enjoying its warmth, until Jared jabbed him in the ribs. 

"C'mon then, Jen. Let's find a good spot to empty this thing. I'm hungry."

* * * 

They ended up under a little grouping of trees behind the garage, not very far from the lot where the cars were washed. There were situated just so—there was sun, and also just enough shade to make it a pleasant spot, especially with a couple of blankets thrown down. The thick grass under the trees made it as comfortable as a bed.

Jared sat cross-legged in the middle of the blanket, watching Jake and Mark as they pulled a few cars into the lot. In the blink of an eye, the cars were swarming with toddlers. 

Jared flipped a cube of cheese into the air, and caught it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he watched the little ones split up into teams to play Jake's games. "Shouldn't they be in the kitchens, in the fields, or the stables?" he asked Jensen. "Why are they all clambering all over the cars?"

"Jake had permission from your father. The toddlers help out here, or play those...games, when they're not required in their regular duties. Master Gerolt enjoys their...playfulness. As does Jake," he muttered and watched the man grab up a pair of three year olds and dash around the yard with them. There were a few mothers watching from the sidelines, biting their lips and casting quick, nervous glances towards where Jared and Jensen sat. 

After a few minutes, Jared asked in the flat, emotionless tone Jen had come to dread,"Does my father play with them?" 

"Play with them, Master?" Jensen asked. He stalled a bit for time, knowing full well what Jared asked but wanting to avoid the conversation with all his might. "No, Master, he does not," Jensen was able to honestly answer. He knew that Master looked, but so far, had not touched—not even the trayboys, not since that one little damaged one had disappeared. Jensen wasn't a fool, he was well aware it was only a matter of time; still, he couldn't help but hope for the toddlers safety. 

Jensen watched Mark lead the toddlers through an amusing exercise—they walked along a fence rail, struggling to keep their balance, and laughing nearly as loud as free children did. Mark's sly, slinky laugh wound in and out of the toddlers shouts of encouragement to each other, their disappointed yelps when one fell. Mark helped each one across, helped the ones who tumbled. He was endlessly patient, kind in his dry, sarcastic, way... _why_ couldn't Mark see past the false smile that hid Jake's slimy soul? He was angry that Mark, clever as he was, couldn't see Jake for who—what—he was. It hurt to see Mark and that man laughing together, walking together—  
Jensen gasped softly. Was he jealous of Mark and Jake's closeness? 

He thought about it, turning over their relationship in his mind, and decided that no, while he felt close to Mark, and loved him, it was for his rough kindness and support; the love he felt was more that of a brother, not a lover. 

"Good," Jared murmured, and Jensen jumped—startled by what seemed like Jared reading his mind, but of course, he was replying to what Jensen had said about his father. He just managed to stifle a nervous chuckle, covered it by leaning over the basket to offer Jared something cool to drink.

* * * 

Jared walked through the kitchen doors with his purloined buttered roll, out to the place in the herb garden, a place he liked to spend time in because his father and his little band of hangers-on did not. Jensen, trailing the correct two feet behind him, saw that he wasn't eating the roll so much as tearing it into bits—a welcome feast for the birds. Jared seemed deep in thought, so Jensen did his best not to intrude on his masters thoughts, yet watch him closely to be instantly available for whatever he might need. In being trained to see Jared as someone to be catered to above all else, he'd almost lost sight of him as anything but a task; some days, he could barely remember being friends with the boy. Jared stopped and Jensen, having learned to be attuned to him, stopped within the prescribed distance.

"I'm attending a party tomorrow, that means you are as well. Go to that instructor; he'll help prepare you to be the way I want you." With that Jared made a hand-signal that meant _stay this amount of time_ and walked away. 

Jensen waited. Jared had signaled ten minutes, so Jensen stood in the center of the garden, still as a statue, and waited as thralls quickly walked around him. No one spoke to Jensen when he wore a short black jacket over his shirt. It was something that he was incredibly grateful for: that no one spoke to him when he was Jared's bodythrall, and that Jared was satisfied with the jacket as a sign of service. Jensen was well aware that most bodythralls wore collars. Some wore nothing at all, or only wore that hideous collection of straps and rings Instructor had him practicing with lately—a harness that was almost worse than nothing at all—

A sudden wave of nausea dropped Jensen to his knees, left him with his head swimming, his heart slamming in his chest like a rabbit's. _Oh, no, Jared. Oh no._

Foolishly, it had never occurred to him that Jared would want that on Jensen outside of the bedroom. What a fool he was, what an idiot. No _wonder_ Jared hadn't used his name, or met his eyes; no wonder he'd left him in the garden alone. 

His breath shuddered in and out, in and out, but finally he stumbled to his feet when he heard footsteps on the gravel. It was Annie who'd stepped into the path, luckily for Jensen.

"Lucky, you need help?"

He shook his head, eyes on the stones, blinking frantically to keep tears in check. 

"You going to be okay?" He nodded, and she stepped away from him. "Alright. See you at dinner." 

She walked away without another word. Jensen understood her actions for what it was. She was giving him what dignity she could.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instructor had approached Jared's order that Jensen accompany him to the party as a test of his ability to train thralls—to, as he said, "Turn a lump of mud into a less lumpy blob of mud."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the tags--there's an act of non-consensual sex in this chapter.

Instructor had approached Jared's order that Jensen accompany him to the party as a test of his ability to train thralls—to, as he said, "Turn a lump of mud into a less lumpy blob of mud." 

Jensen was boiled and scrubbed, massaged in oil, and rubbed with the stones, and plucked until he was biting back waves of rage, out of the sheer frustration of being treated like a doll instead of a living being. Instructor slapped him once or twice to keep him in place. And then told him his cheeks looked lovely with a dash of pink, and copied the look with makeup. He tinted Jen's lips "so it looks like they've been bitten", and penciled in dark lines around his eyes, and arched his brows a bit. He told Jensen it made him look interested and alert. Jensen found that hard to believe—as far as he was concerned, he looked like a startled cartoon character—Oswald the Lucky Rabbit in lipstick—but it was not his place to question. He hoped Jared didn't find it comical, not if this party was as important to him as Jensen guessed.

Now, standing at the side of the drive with Jared, watching Jake drive up in Gerolt's car from under his lashes, he didn't find anything about this comical. 

The car rolled to a stop and Jake jumped out, boldly giving Jensen a quick once-over, and why not? Jensen was essentially naked under a satin cape that hung loosely around his body, not doing much to cover the fact that all he wore was a web of straps that left his cock and ass bare. He felt worse than naked to be standing exposed while everyone around him was dressed. Jake winked at him, and chuckled softly when Jensen dropped his eyes to the ground and set his entire concentration on not shivering. His hands and feet were like ice, even though the night was warm enough. Jensen concentrated so hard on not moving that he started violently when Jared looped a finger through a strap and tugged. Luckily, Jared ignored it.

"Hurry and get in, the driver's holding the door for you. Oh, for all god's sake, Jen! Don't look so glum!" 

Jared's eyes were wide, shining but weirdly flat, like windows to an empty house. His teeth were bared in a bright, white, smile, his cheeks and the tip of his nose bright red. When he spoke, he was loud, louder than usual, louder than he'd been for a long time. "We're going to have fun," he crowed, slapping Jensen's shoulder. "I've never been to a party before, I mean, not one like this. Supposed to be all the worthwhile people there, tonight. It's a chance for me to mingle, build a name for myself. You'll help me, won't you?" He took Jen's hand and squeezed his fingers. Frowned. "Your hand—it's like ice." 

Jensen nodded, not meeting Jared's eyes, because he was afraid he might lose his hard-won blankness if he did. _Of course_ he was freezing. He was in _public_ dressed in a handful of black straps, decorated with noisy and rather tacky silver medallions, and a frightening amount of buckles and rings. There was a strap around his neck that connected to another strap down the center of two straps crossed over his chest, and then attached to the strap around his waist where it diverted into two straps framing his cock and his ass in a most humiliating way—like—like a target. His hands twitched at the thought, instinctively wanting to cover. A pair of ugly sandals completed his ensemble, ungainly things with straps the length of his legs that accented his bowed calves. And then, as if the overabundance of straps were not enough, Instructor had topped the whole ludicrous look with a black, red and purple _hideous cape_ \--Padalecki colors, Four gods save him. Like a damn race horse.  
He would have died of embarrassment, or laughed himself silly at just how ridiculous he looked, but the way Master had looked at him, as if he was something good to eat; Jensen quelled a shiver. It'd killed the laughter. Made Jen feel slimy, made him just a touch angry with Jared….

He was surprised that Jake didn't drive them to their destination, instead, he drove to a holding not that far from the Padalecki estate. He dropped them off with another silent, lingering appraisal that, thank the Four, Jared didn't catch. 

The small estate was one that Mistress had occasionally visited, reluctantly. She'd never seemed over-fond of the holders there, but her duties required it of her. While the estate was a small one, the house itself was large—bigger than the Padalecki—and in a style that combined modern elements along with classical elements in a surprisingly pleasing way. The white columns surrounding the porch were topped with stylized grape vines—the family owned several vineyards, Jensen recalled, and were rather proud of the wine they produced. Jensen stifled a giggle, remembering that Mistress had found their wines mediocre; oh, the subtle twist of her lips as she'd been served it on visits….

He missed Mistress so much.

The grounds of the estate thronged with young people, dashing about, making noise enough to steal the rest of anything for miles around. As they walked along, Jensen saw no adults—not really so unusual since this was the start of The Season, when people went abroad, or to Arcadia, some even traveled to the latest place that had been decided was _the_ place to travel to—New Espania. 

Young masters and freemen poured out of the cars parked here and there on the lawn and driveway, and Jensen followed Jared's lead towards a snappy, red-and black sedan. It was long—triple seats—and wide, and already filled: a couple of master's children, and some new-money, upper-class landholder's children—all of them bright, dressed in their best, and vibrating with excitement—too loud, too energetic, bordering on frantic. 

There was an empty spot on one of the bench seats--"We saved it for you, Paddy!" shrieked one of the girls, so Jared climbed in over knees and laps, pulling Jensen behind him. Jensen struggled mightily not to touch any of the masters, and ended up sort of angled across Jared's lap after Jared refused to have him sit on the floor with two other bodythralls. Jensen tried as best as he could not to clash elbows with the couple they'd squashed between; an arresting blonde amazon and her friend, an equally beautiful, dark-skinned girl of similar amazonian proportions. They took up a lot of space and air—they made Jensen feel like a squatty, little mushroom.

The blonde amazon kept trying to engage Jared in conversation, leaning over Jensen as if he didn't exist. Her elbow in parts of him that had never been exposed publicly was quite the reminder how much of a person he _wasn't_ in their eyes. 

"Paddy! We never expected to see you at one of Clyde's rumbles—though why not, the clubs you've hit up in the city lately, this'll seem like small potatoes, I am so sure—" she laughed loudly, right into Jensen's face, and fanned herself dramatically. "Hells, we wish we were lucky enough to have a dad who let us get away with murder, isn't that so, Evelyn?"

"Emily!" Evelyn scolded, brushing her dark curls back from her face—and into Jensen's. "What have I told you about blurting out every ridiculous thought you have?"

The others in the car laughed as Emily went an annoyed pink—Jared smiled tightly and twisted his hand into the strap behind Jensen's back. At the same moment, Emily reached over Jensen, brushing against his bare skin like it was a part of the seat, but he had no way to avoid her, what with Jared pulling him so tightly against him. She drew a finger up the fly of Jared's trousers in a way that was probably meant to be seductive, but Jared flinched and grimaced, tilting himself—and Jensen—as far away from her as the lack of space allowed. The girl kept on trying to touch him like she hadn't noticed. Jensen was willing to bet that she hadn't, judging by how glazed her eyes were. 

"You must promise to show me some of what you're learning. I've heard stories, you know," she giggled, and her friend reached around the boys to smack her hand. 

"All Gods, Emily, stop acting like a slut! Let go of the boy's prick, will you?" The entire car erupted into laughter, as the two girls pretending to slap-fight, incidentally catching Jensen once or twice in the cross-fire. Jared just crossed his arms and dropped his head back against the seat-rest, shutting out both the blonde, her girlfriend, and Jensen. Jensen tried to tune out the looks he was getting from the others in the car, ignored the fleeting little touches, pokes and prods hampered by lack of space, for which Jensen was so grateful. He had no idea what to do because Jared hadn't given him instruction yet, so at least the crowding saved him from having to make some sort of decision on his own—and possibly—probably—choosing the wrong thing. 

The sun had completely set by the time they arrived in the city. Their car joined a line of cars parked up and down the street. A uniformed thrall came out of the shadows to direct the drivers into parking spots, and the young freemen and masters boiled out of their cars in a frantic wave. 

The crowd swarmed to a townhouse blazing with light, part of a row of immaculate houses. The stairs towards the dark double doors where were full of boys and girls in all levels of finery—from opera capes buttoned high around the neck, to flimsy little scraps of material that barely counted as clothing. Most of the boys wore tailcoats, Jared as well, a formal sort of look offset by his multi-colored bow-tie, and the pink shirt and vest he wore instead of the traditional white. Other boys wore multi-colored vests, or had stripes of color down the legs of their pressed, perfectly-cut trousers—a small rebellion that Jensen found laughable.

The double doors flew open, and the light from inside the house bathed the stairs and the manicured bits of lawn and shrubbery, so bright it spilled right out to the street in front of the house. Music burst out into the street as well, so loud it almost had weight, tumbling down the stairs and filling up all the spaces the young freemen didn't. 

When they barged into the townhouse, the music punched Jensen right in the chest. He staggered behind Jared, along with the other thralls being dragged along on leashes. He felt some relief that his leash was attached to the d-ring in the middle of his chest, and not to the collar around his neck. A little whip of a girl in front of him stumbled and went down choking when her mistress pulled too hard on the strap around the girl's thin neck, yanking her off her feet. Master Jared pulled him out of the way; he couldn't see what happened next, but the laughter felt like it trailed after him as he hurried after Jared.

The flood of young freemen washed across the foyer, a large, high-ceilinged room with a vast marble-floor similar to the Estate's foyer; overhead a double chandelier dripping with light pears blazed, killing shadows in every possible nook and cranny. Ropes of smaller pears swagged the windows, the banisters; they were looped over portraits and across the walls filling the room with even more light. So much artificial light gave the air an overly bright and acidic look. Jensen squinted a bit against the visual assault. How ugly everything looked under the too-bright light—false and two-dimensional, like a cheap stage play. 

As the assault on his eyes and the shock to his ears became bearable, he began to discern an actual rhythm to the music. Blaring noise became horns, drums, voices...the music was something he'd heard some of the household staff gossip about. He'd even heard it playing quietly sometimes, late at night in the kitchen, in the time before Mistress passed. And yes, it was raw, loud, and frantic—and violently alive. 

Tucked in here and there around the room Jensen made out the speakers that threw the audiophone's playlist to the crowd, the dancing, laughing, mass of boys and girls, flashing sweat-glazed skin as bottles and bones passed from hand to hand—

Someone shouted out, "Gimme, gimme, gimme!" and yanked Jensen's hair as they flashed by, the herb-drenched smoke trailing after them added to the stinging in Jensen's eyes. Jared didn't seem to notice—busy swaying to the music. It was alive in a way Jensen wasn't sure he liked. It was certainly something he'd never experienced it before, not like this, with saxophones howling, drums and cymbals crashing; his heart speed up as the beat rose and rose and rose, making him want to—to—do something. 

_"Pads, you're here,"_ shouted one of the red-cheeked boys, his arm looped around a girl whose dress had slid somewhat awkwardly off her shoulder, baring most her chest, and one perky, mahogany nipple. "Rhonda and what's-er-name are around somewhere. Rhonda's been going on and on about 'cha Randy for you, I'll bet, gotcha in her sights for more than just yer play-dates. Between her and Emily, I'd say you were right set." He'd leaned in close on the last bit, whisper-shouting, his smile a lascivious smear across his face. 

Jared blushed red and pointedly ignored Jensen, who felt a tiny crack in his heart. So...now he had some idea of what Master was up to when he came late from school, or disappeared on the weekends. Of course, he had no right to feel anything, but still...it hurt. At least a little. The hurt made him forget that he was essentially standing naked in a room full of strangers, so there was that, something to be grateful for. 

It was also some very small solace that he wasn't the only one forced into being nude in public—other thralls standing with him against the wall were in a variety of get-ups, some worse than wearing nothing at all. One of the boys wore rabbit ears, and a furry ball of a tail...Jensen shuddered when he realized the tail was a plug. The boy's hands were encased in furry mitts strapped to his knees, between that and a short bar between his ankles, the only way he could walk was a shuffling sort of semi-hop...a girl next to him had a cup full of crayons attached to the strap around her neck. Her body was decorated with names, sayings, drawings...she was a walking autograph book. 

There were more than a few thralls who wore nothing but elaborately outfitted plugs. Some were pierced and tattooed in the newest fashion, something the instructor had gone on about at length. Most of the thralls had their fingers dyed that supposedly exotic red. Jen couldn't help staring; he wondered if it was permanent and if it was, what happened to those thralls when the fashion died out?

A very few of them were scarred—branded. Some were obviously drugged. Some could barely conceal their hatred, and Jensen so wanted to warn them _no, no, no, do not let is show. Cover, smile, study your toes, but don't look at the masters like that._

A sharp pain between his shoulder blades almost made him gasp out loud. "Hey you! Didn't you hear us? Take these around the room."

He had a platter shoved in his hands, realized the person glaring at him was a master. "What are you, stupid? Padaleck, your bitch damaged or something?"

The thrall standing with the master was also holding a tray full of drinks. She darted her eyes towards the floor where the freemen were dancing, and made a subtle move-along shrug of her shoulders. Jen hurried out to the dance floor, praying none of the frantically gyrating party goers knocked the tray out of his hand. 

He was whirled from person to person, desperately balancing himself and the tray as hands groped him, pinched him, snatched tidbits off the tray. Some of them demanded he feed them, or that he take bites off items they discarded. Some of them touched his cock, or slipped fingers between his cheeks, sharp, dry jabs that stung, or pulled at the strap that ran between his legs, rubbing him raw. 

Suddenly Jared was in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. He reached out and snatched the tray from Jensen's hand, tossing it to a passing thrall who juggled it frantically, face gone white with fear at the thought of dropping it. He dragged Jensen over to a grouping of settees. On almost everyone, there were freemen and masters writhing with each other, or with each other's thralls...Jensen's stomach clenched, what little he'd eaten threatened to reappear. 

Oh, he'd tried to mentally prepare himself for these sort of things— gods knew Instructor was constantly nattering about such things; after all, that's what part of the instructing was about and Instructor claimed it was a basic, non-special part of being an old and not very attractive bodythrall...but to actually have to _do_ anything like it, in public, in the _open_ ….

Jared yanked a ring in the straps, bringing Jensen sprawling across his lap. A bottle of champagne magically appeared in the other hand, and Jensen watched the long column of his throat shudder as Jared swallowed deep pulls then dropped the bottle, ignoring the way it bounced and sprayed the floor. He glared at the dance floor and growled, "Mother never let me go to parties like this. Look at what she kept from me." He pressed his face to Jensen's chest, muttered under his breath. "This is what masters do, this is what we live for."

It took all Jensen's self control not to drop to his knees and beg the gods to spare him.

There was a thundering flurry of noise behind them; they turned to see a horde of boys and girls clattering up the stairs, furs and clothing fluttering over the railing, screams of laughter so shrill and high, it made Jensen shudder. Jared watched it all with hot eyes, and turned to Jensen. "Let's go up." Not a request, not at all, but Jensen tried to treat it so, out of desperation. He stuttered, " Oh...Ja--Master, I…I…"

Jared turned to him, his expression gone blank, his ice-cold eyes trying for Master Gerolt's awful, fish-like glare, but Jared would never achieve it. He was too smart, too pretty...no, not Gerolt, never Gerolt. 

Jensen shuddered at the twisted, perverted caricature of Mistress Patricia staring at him. "Are you questioning me, Jensen? Are you?"

"No, Master, never," Jensen said, dropping his eyes. He rose as gracefully as possible when Jared snatched his hand and yanked him off the couch, running as Jared followed the other masters up the stairs. 

They were in one of the bedrooms. The music was muffled behind the shut doors; it was just a rhythmic thudding, making the floor vibrate. The room they were in was dimly lit by a large electric fireplace. The walls were hand-painted in the old fashioned way, labor intensive and another demonstration that the family was more than well-to-do. The duvet Jared pushed him down on billowed around them like a cloud. In the dim light it was as if the bed filled the whole room. He wondered whose room this was, whose bed Jared pushed him down onto. Jared caged him in with his knees. He hung over Jensen, staring at him, frightening him. 

All night, Jared's eyes had been empty pools, all the warmth, the colors of the ocean that Jensen had loved about them vanished under alcohol and more, he suspected. Not only was he trying to act like his father, he was poisoning himself the way his father did. 

Without taking his eyes off Jensen, he dropped his jacket to the floor, and now leaned back to push the suspenders off his shoulders. Pulled his shirt open, heedless of the garnet studs falling every which way. Jensen gasped in a shaky breath. The look on Jared's face...it was like facing this with a stranger. Jared's hands ran down his body, tweaking the straps, pulling sharply at Jensen's nipples, pressing down on his belly. Now Jared's cock pushed against the fine wool of his trousers, clearly outline, a growing spot of darkness on the fabric. He growled, and jerked them open, reached down to bare himself. Jensen licked his lips, preparing himself for—what, he wasn't sure, but if his master needed him, he would always be ready.... 

The bed vibrated, sank a bit, but Jensen didn't really register it—Jared was dropping pants and shirts and underclothing to the floor. He bracketed Jensen's head with his arms—framed between Jared's hands and his knees, Jen truly felt caged in. 

Jared stared at him for a long minute, his face softening, in the dim light he looked younger, like the boy who'd first, hesitantly reached out for his companion...Jared groaned, breaking the spell; he dropped his head, his hair drifting to curtain his face, so that all Jen could see were his red cheeks, his wet mouth. 

Jared kissed him, stroking tongue to tongue, licking smooth and wet, warm inside his mouth. Gently nibbling at his lips, sucking the tip of his tongue. Jensen shuddered, opened his mouth wider, wanting more. He loved kissing Jared, loved the feel of his mouth over his, lips like silk and his tongue as well. Loved the touch of his hand framing his face, guiding Jensen's mouth where he wanted, how he wanted, licking at him. He grazed Jen's lips with his teeth, nibbling, almost ticklish nips became soft bites along his lips, cheeks, chin, grazed down his neck, before he stopped, took a breath – and sunk his teeth into Jensen's throat. Jensen was shocked speechless at the sharp pain. He arched and groaned as it shot tingling streamers all through him. 

A hand traced the arch of his shoulder, then dug in. It wasn't Jared's He was tipped roughly forward as Jared made room, oil slicked fingers probed him, the tips going in and in, jabbing and stretching. Jared watched, and pulled on his cock. 

"Are you ready to take us, my little clockwork, take my prick—Jones' too?"

"Master!" A riptide of horror nearly dragged Jensen out of the world. On Instructor's insistence, he'd had some training for it, but...Jared. Jared loved him, why would he do such a thing to him? "Oh, oh no, Master, _please—"_

This private thing they did, and now Jared wanted to fuck him, with strangers? Where anyone could see, and—and—want to take it too? Like Gerolt, like an animal….

Tears sprang to his eyes, no matter how he tried to hold them back, and for a moment Jared faltered, but his friend was pushing more oil inside him, fingers thick and rough stabbing into Jensen over and over. Jared pulled Jensen upright, his hands locked in the straps that crossed his chest. He was naked, and behind him all Jen could feel was skin, thick thighs supporting Jen's thinner thighs. "Both of us," Jared whispered and it was all Jensen could do not to scream—not to punch Jared in the face. 

He closed his eyes as if doing so would shut out how the two masters cursed and fought each other, getting in each other's way. There was more oil, spilled over his thighs, down his back, two sets of fingers trying to push more oil inside him, those fingers pulling and yanking on his hole, forcing reluctant muscle wide. He was crying now, and his lips bled from him biting them closed. This kind of thing could happen, yes, but these boys were young and stupid and noway as experienced as they'd like to think and it _hurt._

"Fucking—Pads, you're a fucking horse prick—how do those shebas take this monster?"

"Shut the fuck up, you asshole," Jared yelled, and Jensen's ears rang. Again and again, they pushed, prodded, slipping back and forth until finally, feeling like he was being ripped in two, the other master's cock popped in, sliding against Jared's cock and ripping a yell out of them both—Jared in pleasure and Jensen, stomach-twisting pain. Being speared by both of them was agony, something that never transformed into the pleasure the instructor had assured him he would feel. It hurt, and made him feel like he was being flayed from the inside out. He'd have a flash of something like pleasure, but it was constantly erased by pain

It wasn't long before both masters came inside him, Jared growling like a furious, feral beast—Jones moaning and laughing, then cursing when Jared pushed him back with a punch to his chest. Falling backwards yanked his cock out of Jensen, wringing a shout out of Jen, making him dizzy. His eyelids drooped shut despite trying to stay alert, darkness swept over him even before they dropped him face down on the bed. 

It felt like seconds before his eyelids fluttered open again. He closed them quickly, deliberately this time, and kept his breathing steady—faking sleep. He heard the masters talking, low and quick. Fingers wrapped around his wrist, there was a thumb pressed under his chin—taking his pulse, Jensen realized. A bitter wish to laugh left him limp. 

The bed shook, fabric rustled, Jones cursed Jared again and yelped—the door slammed to. And then, Master was laying down next to him. Whispering in his ear.

"Mother was wrong, she was always wrong. Look at how perfectly you took this, look at how sweetly you took me. You love this, don't you. You were born for this, training you for masterHouseboy would've been a waste, just like Father said. A waste not to use you the way you should be. I was a fool! You liked that boy in you, didn't you? _Didn't you?_ " 

Jared's hands had gone from caressing to twisting his nipples, twisting the straps that framed his cock, pinching and stabbing. Jared was deep in a jealous rage, and Jensen could only ride out the wave of his master's anger. "Slut, fucking— _toy,_ that's what you are, a fucking toy to be used like this!" Jared came with a strangled shout—almost a howl. He dropped down on Jensen, twisting his head at the last instant so that they'd didn't touch, cheek to cheek, the way they usually did.

* * * 

Jensen swam in the dark behind his eyes, floated on the music, still a steady thump-thump coming from downstairs. People still ran wild through the house, laughing, screaming, but all of it was distant and muffled. Jared was whispering something in his ear, and Jensen threw himself heart-first into the lessons he'd been taught—how to receive pain and breathe through it. Taking hatred, disgust, fear, and turning it to dust, something that couldn't touch him. Making himself a receptacle of stone, but a pliant target as well. Preparing for the worst.

Even though it was just Jared touching his arm, Jared talking to him. 

He was grateful for those lessons now, finally realizing Instructor was maybe not the whole ass Jensen thought he was. Jensen bit his lip, savaged the inside of his cheek to keep from crying. He breathed, in out, in out, as he thought about the evening, and how he'd been manipulated, and how Jared had been manipulated as well...this, this wasn't entirely Jared's fault. It was mostly not his fault as all. The blame lay on his father, and the masters around him, and the jealousy. It was this horrible life of theirs, destroying everyone and everything good

* * * 

They left not long after, Jared closed off and cold, and Jensen filthy and ashamed. He was sent to the baths after they returned and then bedded down in the cubby of Jared's room.

Long after he thought Jared was asleep, he heard him crying, his racking sobs muffled by his pillow. Jensen waited, hoping Jared would call on him, but he never did, and eventually Jensen fell asleep.

* * * 

Life was like...well, these days it felt like his life was constantly, over and over, exploding and burning down around him.

Jared seemed to withdraw, and no matter what Jensen did, how much he tried to connect with his master, Jensen was avoided, ignored when he couldn't be.

Instructor was besides himself with fear, and tried a number of things that Jensen didn't like and Master Jared seemed not much to like himself. While Master had seemed to enjoy Jensen in the straps, he didn't want Jensen chained to his bed, or tied up with rope into painful and humiliating positions, or presented gagged and hooded and cuffed for which Jensen was endlessly, desperately grateful. Gods, he loved Jared that much more when he dressed instructor down in front of the household staff for presenting Jensen in the rear of the sedan, wearing only a hood with breathing tube attached. When, blessing on Skadi for the mercy, the rubber hood was peeled back from his head, Jensen clearly saw the horror in Jared's eyes, despite the fact his features were stony and blank. 

Gerolt laughed and laughed, at both the presentation and Jared's reaction to it, as if it was a great joke, as if Jared had had a prank played on him, and teased his son cruelly all day for not wanting Jensen that way—pushed and pushed until Jared snapped.

"You, assistant Houseboy—take the bodythrall and its Instructor to the posts. Wait there until I arrive." Jared shouted, then jumped up from the table and rushed out of the hall, leaving Gerolt and his hangers-on blessedly silent for a moment—stunned at Jared's show of anger. 

"Well," Kurt said, dropping his napkin on his plate. "I guess I'll get my bag and head out there." He turned to a trayboy and said, "Get that nurse out there too. No reason to touch 'em if I don't have to." 

Gerolt chuckled, and given permission, so did his retinue. "I guess the little sparrow is growing up. So much for his dam's coddling, eh?" 

While Gerolt and the other's finished their dinner, the assistant Houseboy returned, looking pale. He silently took his place by the doors to the dining room, hands crossed behind his back and eyes flicking between the doorway and Gerolt.

* * * 

Jensen was past tears, past fear, locked deep in a cage made of ice and rage. He knew what was coming. There'd never been a moment that he hadn't forgotten that Mistress had had him flogged. He'd understood then, despite the agony, that it was the law and it was right to do. Now...things had changed,. Mistress herself had changed him. And at this moment, with the oiled, sparkling clean chains biting into his wrists, he wished she never had.

How was he going to be able to look at Jared again. He hung there silently, ignoring the sound of the instructor crying, begging for mercy. Had the man never been whipped before? He found it hard to believe, he was such an unpleasant personality. "Do shut the fuck up," Jensen hissed. 

The instructor surprised Jensen by doing just that. He blinked owlishly at Jensen before whimpering, "Aren't you afraid? Gods, gods, they're going to beat us. _Whip_ us!"

"Yes, and with you whining and crying and acting like—that—they won't stop until you fall unconscious—do you know how long that will take? Shut up, and maybe there'll be mercy, you ass."

Instructor gaped at him, and whispered, "—the scars on your back—"

"Shut. Up."

The instructor clamped his mouth shut. Jensen could hear a steady, heavy footfall, and then, a hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him away from the pole. He couldn't help but jerk—he inhaled sharply at what he heard next. 

"It's over, Lucky. He's come to his damned senses." The chains fell loose, and Jensen sighed, relieved to the point of not being able to wrestle a word out. He nodded at Jim. Jim took the chains off his ankles and under the sound of iron dropping to the ground said, "He came to his senses—this time. Beware, Jen. It kills me to say this, but...beware of him." 

The two thralls were rushed off the square, and Jim ordered them sent to the baths, "a healing bath," he'd instructed, and there the moist, warm air helped to calm them both, and neck deep in hot, scented water, Jensen finally began to breathe again. Jim nodded before leaving them in the hands of the bath girls, who were uncommonly kind. Jensen didn't need words to know what had happened, and who had saved them. Jared had come to his senses—at least a bit of his mother's spirit still dwelt inside him.

That evening, rested, fed, and needing some time to puzzle out his thoughts, and being lucky enough to have time to himself, he walked the kitchen gardens, enjoying the good, healing smells of the herbs. He walked the length of the garden, then taking the two steps up to the cutting gardens and wandering the paths there...it was good to have a little space to breathe. To work on packing fear and pain away and living again. He crossed the gardens, dipping down to avoid branches in the orchard, when he heard a noise he recognized all too well—someone was crying. he came across Instructor, curled over his knees and trying hard to sob quietly. He looked up when he saw Jensen, and tried to look angry, but failed. "I want to hate you so badly, but it's not your fault. It's all mine. Did you know my position has been erased? Jensen, do you think...what will happen to me?"

It was an odd, to feel sorry for the man who'd been a bane in his life, but Jensen sighed. What good was it to dislike the man now when he had nothing? "Instructor…"

"Don't call me that. I'm nobody. I'm a used-up old hole who was sold off to a brothel, had a lucky moment when the master's sire bought me, and now. He's going to beat me to death, or send me to the roads. The knick knack man is coming for me, Jensen. I'm going to die, me, the sum total of twenty-five years worth of nothing." He looked at Jensen. "I'm sorry. I'm really very sorry  
Instructor didn't say what he was sorry about—the abuse, the lessons, dragging Jen into a world he didn't want to know, the loss of his position…but Jensen nodded. Instructor had acted exactly as Jensen had anticipated. It was like his mam would say—pain begot pain, ugly returned ugly. He could afford to break the chain. "Listen, he who has no name—"

The instructor surprised Jensen—and himself, it seemed—by laughing. "Alexander. My last master named me Alexander as a joke—you know, the great king—but even so it was a joke, it was my favorite name."

"I'm well aware of who Alexander was," Jensen huffed, but forced himself to calm. How could this man know who he was, what his life had been before Gerolt's return? "Alexander—Lex," he said, "no one is going to kill you. They won't be calling the knick knack on you. I belong to Jared, and by extension, so do you. Doesn't matter if Gerolt hired you, Jared's the one making use of you. And he won't."

"No offense, but what makes you so sure? He's a cold-hearted one, the young Master. Dangerous. Much smarter than his sire, for certain. Masters like that scare me."

"You have no reason to believe me, I know. But he's not like that, not really." Jensen sent a quick prayer to the gods—he hoped this was a fact. It _was_ a fact.

Somehow, Lex the former instructor managed to find a place in the Household that kept him hidden, and eventually he became part of the invisible staff—those that served in parts of the house masters never thought of. Jensen often saw him in the baths, mixing up the salts and oils that were used there, sometimes massaging Gerolt's retinue, servicing them when wanted, which wasn't that often and tended to be female and left Jensen wondering if that was where Lex's leanings were. 

On the eve after the beginning of Midsummer celebration, the Household heads and a few favored staff were gathered together on the outermost edges of the orchard, where the coals of the fires still crackled and the tables for the feasts were set up. It was a comfortable night, a warm breeze floating the scent of the gardens through the air. They were sharing left-overs from earlier that day, some beef that Jared had had sent to the quarters, though of course the bulk of the meat was the pork allowed them. They were splitting a few bottles of wine that 'Cook had sent, too—thrall wine she made herself. There were also some tiny cakes to share, and cookies shaped like flower- wreaths. 

All in all, everyone agreed that this Midsummer had been much more satisfying than Yule had been. Jensen thought it was because Gerolt had been subtly removed from those duties and Jared had taken the reins. Whatever the case, it was a good day, and Jensen greedily banked up any day that let him be himself. 

Trinny topped off everyone's glasses, first forcing each person to sing a snatch of song. They'd been surprised at Jensen's pleasant voice, but as he explained, in Master Patrick's house, it was just one of the many skills he was expected to have. Lex, too, had a pleasant voice—again, a skill he was expected to have. There was a lot of laughter when Mark and Will sang, and everyone begged master Tech to not sing. He took it well, laughing at himself as he always did. Eric took the bottle and re-filled Micheal's glass, smiling at him fondly, the way, Jensen thought, one smiled at a sweet but not very bright pet. He shook his head. Someday he'd find out just what the real story was with those two. 

He looked past one of the fading fires and caught sight of Jake, sitting off to himself, staring up at the night sky with a faint frown. Jensen avoided the man when he could—was glad not to draw his notice tonight. 

A shout of laughter drew his attention back to Lex, who was in conversation with the bath's headGirl and the nurse. He lifted his glass to them with a little bow of his head, said, "Well now, women, no matter what they look like, don't interest me at all. But my fellows, I have been well-trained and never was a fool. Fucking a hole you care for not at all, or ending up pig's feed—what do you think the choice is?" 

Nurse nodded, and took a deep drink, nearly emptying their glass in one go, and the headGirl brayed out laughter like Lex had told an especially good joke. Maybe he had, Jensen sighed. Maybe he had.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sense of excitement filled the air as the last part of the Midsummer observance came

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains death of a minor child character.

A sense of excitement filled the air as the last part of the Midsummer observance came, the part that involved the entire community as well as the estate, bringing with it hopes for a prosperous new year to come, for fertility and large yields in the fields, for the landholders and obliquely, their thralls. In the cities and towns, prosperity meant increased economic gains—for businesses to grow, employment to be steady—and the people did what they could to convince the gods to take an interest in this, so they gathered, city and country side alike, to make their offering to the gods, especially Eir and Freyr. In this day and age, the offerings were all symbolic, in the same way Mistress' funeral offerings had been—cards depicting the sacrifices were given to the fire instead. 

In all the shops that dealt with print, advertising, or decorative arts, the business of making the cards boomed. Even among the thralls, those that were skilled made cards for other thralls and if they were very well skilled, their masters called on them to make their own, personalized cards. Jensen loved watching the cards being made; he was skilled with his hands, but doubted his abilities with pen and colored inks and was always thrilled to watch the cards come to life, with just a few strokes of the pen or a wash of color. The Padalecki estate had always produced their own cards under Mistress. They'd been individual, hand-painted cards, all reflecting the seaside that Mistress had loved. When it was discovered that masterTech Michael's Eric had a talent beyond creating blueprints and design work, it had become another duty of his to execute. 

Eric was patient about letting Jensen hang over his shoulder as he worked; he explained the significance of his color choices, and what the symbols he used meant. They pretended that the delicate buds of lotus blossoms, curling along the edges of the cards he was allowed to make for the thralls, were just that and not tiny dirigibles….

It almost seemed a shame that all the beautiful cards—whether mass produced or hand-crafted art of local fruits, game, and thralls of every station—were doomed to a swift end, cheerfully tossed into the bonfires that were made each night until the end of the midsummer observance. The fires were everywhere: cities held bonfires in public squares, the countryside observed with fires on each major holding, with the villages and towns invited to observe with the masters and landholders. It was tradition. It was a season of parties and balls, a season of marriage and birth and reconciliations between friends and families; it was a time to reconnect, a time for some to celebrate the joy and magic of living, and for others to ask for the strength to keep on.

It was the time of year masters were required to honor the work that even thralls did, to acknowledge that they were also part of the community. The way they were "honored" was beneficial to each holdings' thralls. It had been tradition, and required by the old laws, that each unit of mam and sire and toddlers—or all those who were born thralls—had received gifts. Food and material, enough of each basic to last a half year, or new clothes and boots. It had always been the one time of year that thralls for life could legally voice a complaint that was heard if they did not receive the gifts they were due, by law and by tradition.

So far, the tradition still stood despite the shift to all thralls being indentured for life…Jensen supposed it wouldn't be long before the new laws caught up with tradition and erased that part of a thrall's life as well. At any rate, this was the time of the year the gods were thought to be watching—and possibly paying attention. At least, Jensen liked to imagine that the gods showed some interest in the lives of their little creations at this time of year and just maybe, would make sure the coming season was not as harsh as the one that had passed.

Certainly this season brought some entertainment to them all, as throughout the midsummer time, the Padalecki estate had been in a low-key uproar, what with the staff caught between amusement and their worry of the consequences if their amusement was noted. It centered around Master Gerolt, who was going about in a snit, angry— _furious_ actually—but the horns of the law pinned him quite neatly in this circumstance. It was a _Fool Master_ story come to life, Jensen thought, with the old Master caught in briers, and Seven Thrall pretending to help him out, while leading him deeper and deeper into the prickly maze. However, in this story it seemed Jared played the role of Seven, taking some small pleasure, or so it seemed to Jen, in reminding his father that he had no choice but to distribute gifts and no choice but to distribute useful, quality gifts as well. No barrels of ancient, pickled trotters, or skeins of cheap, useless ribbon. 

Truck after truck of flowers and food, as well as experienced season-planners, came to the estate at Jared's order—a constantly moving stream of people in and out of the grounds. Gerolt may have bent to the law, but it was common knowledge among the thralls that it was Jared who made sure of the follow-through, and that was how Jensen and any other thralls who had an eye for design were drafted to assist the season planners in decorating the estate, preparing the offerings, and crafting the flower crowns for the whole estate and for Master's guests. Everyone worked three times as hard as usual—Gerolt made it known that it was expected in order to make up for the full two days of rest they'd be granted by law. 

Despite the enormous amount of work, Jensen found he was enjoying this year's observance, feeling as if the heavy veil that had settled over the estate since Mistress Patricia's death had finally, at long last, begun to lift. 

He hurried across the lawn towards the outbuilding behind the stables, headed for the many crates sitting on ice in one of the old buildings. There were already a good crowd of thralls about, rushing to and fro. He weaved his way through them, greeting familiar and unfamiliar faces as well. He waved and blew a kiss to his favorite, little Trinny, who was gathering bundles of sunflowers to one side, and to Annie as she swept past with a basket of herbs and a saucy grin. 

He settled himself in the rear of the building, armed with a notepad and a flask of cocoa to keep himself warm in his chilly corner. 'Cook had ordered complete, detailed lists of everything that had been delivered, since she didn't trust the markets who'd sent the items to tell the truth. masterHousemaid had backed her up, in a rare instance of the woman actually involving herself in the general running of the house—though it made sense, Jen thought, since any slight against the master reflected poorly on her. And her continued employment.

First taking a moment to gulp down the thick, sweet, cocoa with a contented sigh, and incidentally warming his fingers—it was surprising how cold the small, brick building was—Jensen set his notepad and the flask down on a standing desk brought in for the workday. Picking up a pry-bar, he methodically opened crate after crate, taking count of the ones that held fruit or herbs, making note of which crates held the flowers waiting to be transformed into flights of fancy. This year, they were making wings for the toddlers as well as crowns for all. He wasn't sure who'd suggested the wings, but it certainly hadn't been Master Gerolt. His suggestion had been ignored; rather, masterHouseboy had managed to subtly steer Gerolt's attention in another direction, while Jared had pointed out that evenings might still be a bit chilly for the toddlers to appear at the festivities as water nymphs, and some guests might not look kindly on unclothed toddlers freezing for their amusement.

 _"Water nymphs, Eir's breath..."_ Jensen huffed in disgust at the thought as he began the second half of his duty: sorting through crate's contents, to separate out the flower stems that would become wings and crowns. 

He opened a crate and was instantly swept up in a wave of pleasant memories. Plucking a few sprigs of lavender from one of the bundles filling the crate, he pulled them gently through his fingers to better release their fragrance. Cupping his fingers around his nose, and inhaling deeply, Jensen tumbled into the memory of long-ago late spring evenings, himself and a tiny Jared sitting in the meadow all on their own, twisting coarse field daisies and daylilies and long, emerald-green runners of ivy into wobbly crowns. How beautiful Jared had looked, like a tiny fairy with his chestnut curls topped with their attempts at crowns, those beautiful, ever-changing elven eyes shining with glee above dirt-smudged cheeks...how he missed those simpler, innocent days. He sighed, and smiled, and put the lavender aside. He'd have those crates go to the bath hall.

* * *

The day had been a complete success, everything perfectly in place—bonfires ready to be lit all along the orchards, long tables groaning with food for the freemen and tables along the edge of the thrall quarters as well. Field thralls were overseeing their grills; pork, of course, and a little beef again—a gift from Jared, the true master of the estate. There were baskets of fresh fruits and vegetables, baskets of fresh bread that the masterCook had the kitchen staff set out, along with thrall wines of all sorts. There was music for everyone, and dancing for all; then finally as the sun started to set, the toddlers put on a performance for the freemen.

Gerolt watched the performance with overly-bright eyes and sweat-glazed, reddened cheeks. His thick fingers were full of candies, and he tossed them to the eager toddlers, handful after handful, making them perform the little tricks that Jake had taught them. The freemen all clapped as Jake suddenly let out an ear-shattering blast of a whistle, and the toddlers dashed across the lawn, quickly joining hands to dance around the freemen, faster and faster and never once stumbling or letting go of each other's hands. 

The little ones weaved in and out in complicated patterns around the legs of Gerolt's guests, totally silent all the while, and though their faces glowed with smiles, Jensen was uneasy with how silent they were. Wilted bits of flowers and leaves littered the ground around the chairs where the freemen and masters sat, shed from the toddlers' crowns and wings. They were pulled onto laps, cheeks pinched and chubby legs rubbed before being sent off to bring more sweets and drinks. They were sent to bring the offering cards when the fires were lit, and they handed them to the guests with little curtsies and wishes for a prosperous season to all. When the moon rose and it was truly night with stars filling the skies, freemen and thralls circled their respective bonfires to send their cards flying into the air. The cards flew up, and then dropped like broken-winged birds to tumble into the flames. They were beautiful, sparking and flaring briefly before sending their smoke high, high; thin, gray plumes twisting and fluttering to fade into the darkness

No other light but the bonfires lit the lawn now and Jensen relaxed just a little, sinking into the shadowy darkness. He was togged out in the embarrassing bodythrall get-up, black straps, jingly silver bits...though thankfully this evening his outfit also consisted of buttery-soft, leather shorts. _Very_ short shorts, but at least his ass was his own this night. He was increasingly grateful for the shorts as the evening went on and the temperature began to drop. He would have loved to inch a bit closer to the bonfires, but Jared showed no sign of moving, and why should he? Fully dressed, handsome in an embroidered vest and open-collared shirt to celebrate the season, Jared surely must be comfortable. 

As they watched the other performances of celebration, Jared's fingers idly, thoughtlessly, traced the edge of a strap over and over, occasionally dipping a fingertip under to stroke Jensen's skin. Around him, other masters and thralls alike began to subtly scratch and slap at themselves. Jensen watched, just managing to keep a self-satisfied smirk off his face. He was no fool; he was all too aware of the time of season, the warm, damp places around the lawn, and what came whining in at this time of year.

He kept an innocent face, hands folded delicately on his knees, while the masters cursed quietly, trying not to draw attention to themselves and their antics. Wiser freemen moved closer to the fire, aiming for the where the smoke drifted towards them. As for Jensen, because the bath girls liked him, a healthy coating of mosquito-ban, disguised as an oil meant to play up his form, covered all his exposed parts. Jared knew this now as well, having stroked Jensen's gleaming skin, then frowned at the feel. Mosquito-ban did not feel the same as bodythrall oil; it was heavier, and had a herbal scent to it. He rubbed his fingers together near his nose. Jensen could only kneel there at his side, nervously peeking at Jared to see his reaction and when all Jared did was give Jen a little smirk that grew before melting into a giggle, Jensen's heart beat a bit faster in relief. 

A high-pitched whining circled annoyingly around them, then stopped with a mosquito landing on Jared's cheek, which he promptly squashed. "Ouch," he exclaimed, "Hit myself harder than I meant to." He pouted, rubbing at the faint red mark on his cheekbone, giving Jensen a sad, puppy-ish look until Jen took pity on his master and leaned up to press a gentle kiss to the curve of his cheek. "Better?"

Jared nodded. "Much...kitchenboys were supposed to put mosquito-ban into the fires and the torches, weren't they?" They watched the other freemen trying to squirm without actually squirming, Jared hiding a smile behind his hand. "What happened?" he whispered. "Oh—did the planners forget?" his smile quickly slid into a frown, but Jensen shook his head.

"I think your father decided it was a worthless expense," Jensen whispered back, and taking a risk, added, "But we ordered some anyway, of course, so we could please your guests without...wiggling about in unseemly ways." 

Jared stared at him, mouth open, and before Jen could seriously worry again that he overstepped, or put the household in a pickle, Jared burst into laughter, pulling Jensen up into his lap and hugging him. "Jen, Jen...little clockwork Jen-love...you are a seriously clever little toy."

They sat together, quietly, comfortably; Jared eased Jensen's head to his shoulder, humming along to the music and threading his fingers through Jen's hair, a soft, intimate touch, with none of the tension in it that Jensen felt so often in Jared the days. Jared even murmured appreciatively when one of the wandering bands of musicians came to stand where he and Jensen and a few other freemen were sitting, apart from the other masters and their thralls. Jensen knew the song the musicians played, a folk song he'd often sung for Master Patrick, so he sang it softly to Jared, who closed his eyes and swayed to the tune. 

A change in the tone of the music brought Jensen upright, and he fished a thin bundle of cards from the pocket inside the waistband of the shorts, ready for the second and final round of sacrifice, trying to be subtle about it, but of course Jared's attention was drawn to him, to the handful of cards.

"Let me see," Jared said, and twitched the pack from Jensen's hand. He studied the beautiful lines, the jewel tones, how the lines were clean and spare and yet, held so much life. "Hunh. Are these cards Eric's work? Did he make them when he made the Estate's cards?" he asked, and Jensen froze. He wasn't sure what Jared's reaction would be to Eric using materials given him to use in working for the masters on frivolous items for the thralls. He nodded cautiously, and relaxed, his whole insides going warm and pliant as wax when Jared just nodded as well, smiling as he thumbed through the cards. "I...sometimes I miss it, I mean the tech shop—but that's baby stuff, no time for that now. You either, I expect." 

Jensen kept silent, just giving his master a movement that could be interpreted any way. He wasn't about to tell Jared that any spare moment he had was spent at the stables or with masterTech Michael and Eric. Fortunately, he was saved from having to answer by the interruption of one of Jared's friends stumbling almost on top of them and shouting out an invitation for Jared to join them later in the evening. Jared took the boy up on it, but let Jensen know he wasn't expected to attend.

Standing next to the bonfire now, watching the last of the cards go up in flame, Jared leaned into Jensen and said, "You know, I'm going be out all night, I expect...instead of waiting up for me, you just go right to sleep, in my room or in your own spot if you wish," Jared said—meaning the little cubby off of Jared's. "Whatever you chose, it's okay."

Jensen did his level best not to appear openly grateful for Master's generosity, just bowed his head and tried make himself small and unnoticeable to Jared's friends.

At last, the festivities wound down, and the younger freemen began to leave—Jensen stood at the edge of the driveway, and watched with some trepidation as Jared climbed on the back of a Roper'pede—it being one of the newest fads for landholder's sons to own. Jared looked back, and sent him a bright wave before the boys roared down the drive, laughing and calling out to each other. The young boys and girls were the very picture of freedom—from cares, from worry, from responsibility. 

Behind them, a heavy, open wagon lumbered up to speed as it came along the drive, pulled by a matched pair selected from the Estate's Percherons; Bo-Bo and Jo-Jo, his favorites. They had a lovely disposition, and an excellent gait. He was sure the poor thralls dressed in whatever their masters thought was clever appreciated it. They sat crowded together for warmth, some of them with their wilted crowns still in place. Jensen watched them go with an overwhelming sense of relief, and a tiny stab of guilt. He knew it was going to be a rough night for those thralls. The freemen were all either drunk or puffed-up—or both. He had the feeling a few of them had gone for stronger stuff as well—riding the dragon. He worried for his master, remembering the first party they'd gone to together, Jared with his too bright, stranger's eyes, but dismissed it. Jared was too smart—too shrewd—to lose himself in a trap like that. 

He stood on the drive until he was certain that the young freemen were definitely gone, then dashed to his cubby, nearly colliding with the house staff not quick enough to jump out of his way. Millie, one of the older roomgirls, shouted after him, "Lucky, 'Cook's got a few trays in the kitchen still, and flasks for us—make sure you get yours before morning bells!"

Nodding, he continued on up the servants stairs in a bid to avoid any of Gerolt's retinue, threw himself through the door to his room with a thrilled huff, and gods—the feeling of relief, sweet, sweet, relief. He struggled his way out of the straps, thanking Four Gods—hells, _all_ gods, right down to the little God of Bees—that he didn't have to wear the ridiculous contraption all day, every day. Bless his master for having more sense than the rest of them. 

Rifling though his clothes drawer, he pulled out a pair of soft gray pants and a collarless shirt, the type the unseen-house staff wore. It was one of his favorite privileges, one that Mistress had granted him and had never been revoked. 

It took him bare minutes to dash back down the stairs and race through the kitchen, snatch up his portion of what was left of the festive dishes, and then sneak out onto the porch. Panting from sprinting about, and feeling like he was nine again and still in Master Patrick's house—but Eir, he only had so much time that was his, and he wanted to enjoy every single second of it.

He sat himself in a dark corner of the porch, settling cross-legged on one of the couches. He opened up the waxed-paper package snatched from the kitchen and smiled. Jackpot! He found two thick slices of buttered bread, a few paper-thin slices of beef. and a couple of chunks of cheese—"Ah!" He exclaimed softly. There were even a few cookies and some slices of pear. He laughed softly. _Lucky._ Opening his flask, he found it filled with hot spiced cider instead of watered-down apple juice. Lucky was definitely the word for this evening.

* * * 

The beef was gone, no matter how slowly he nibbled, also the cheese and bread. He was enjoying the buttery flavor of 'Cook's special cookies, the ones she managed to make taste wonderful despite the restrictions on the ingredients she was allowed to use cooking for thralls, when uneven thumps and bumps signaled someone was walking across the porch, headed his way. He slid off the couch and pushed back deeper into the shadows.

It was Gerolt, bidding the rest of his guests good-journey, until only two or three hangers-on and Kurt, the so-called physic, were left behind. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but saw that they were laughing, and a few minutes later, just as Jensen was nibbling the last bit of the pears, assistantHouseboy and masterMaid came into view, leading...Jensen squinted into the darkness. 

It looked like Millie, and her little girl. 

Millie walked oddly, stumbling like she was tipsy. Without assistantHouseboy's "assistance", there was no doubt Millie would have been flat on her face. Jensen sat a little straighter in his hidden spot. It wasn't usual at all for Millie to drink to the point of tipsiness, not without someone to watch over her girl; her little jewel, she called her. Jensen had always thought she was foolish to attach that deeply to the toddler, but what could you tell the heart, after all? Sometimes there was just no choice in the way it led. And speaking of led, he could see Gerolt's masterMaid, her grip on the toddler's arm looking painful. She was moving to fast for the little girl, forcing her to misstep, almost fall, but the 'Maid just yanked her upright and marched on, stopping only to push the toddler into the physic's arms. 

"Go 'head, Laine, yer dismissed," Gerolt slurred, and his men grabbed Millie by the waist, dancing her around as they headed towards the doors, Kurt snatching the toddler up into his arms and running after. 

Every bit of the food Jensen had enjoyed turned rancid in his mouth; he flashed cold from head to toe as his pleasant meal turned to worms in his gut. He wasn't completely sure about what he'd just seen, but there was no doubt in his mind that the roomgirl was in trouble. Her toddler was in trouble. And Jensen had no way to help. 

Maybe...maybe masterHouseboy? 

Yes.

He'd tell 'Houseboy. He was sure Jim had no idea what was afoot here. It was quiet in the house and on the lawns; thralls having cleaned the celebration areas and most now down for the night. The unseen-night staff were quietly going about their business as usual, unaware, he thought, about Millie's summoning. He'd let Jim know. Jim was incredibly good at steering old Gerolt into behaving like a human being. He'd do something to minimize the damage.

Slipping back into the house, Jensen winced—music was blaring from the upper floors—Gerolt's apartments. There was the occasional rowdy burst of laughter; someone obviously drunk was shouting along to a song; gods, Jensen thought, maybe he was overreacting and it was just a typical Gerolt evening. Maybe Millie and her toddler were just...decoration. Toys. 

Still, he should go to Jim, yes...he could take advantage of Sub Rosa, he was sure of it. Jim was fair, and skilled at navigating the choppy waters of master/thrall interactions. Plus, for whatever reason, when it came to Jim, Gerolt seemed to hold a measure of...respect?...fear? Whatever it was Gerlot felt, it could sometimes be used for the benefit of the thralls.

He was almost at Jim's doors when a high scream blotted out the music, the laughter, the murmuring of the night staff at work; the scream spiraled higher and higher until it no longer sounded human. It broke, and he realized he'd been hearing two voices, one higher than the other, but only one voice shrieked on. Jensen clapped his hands over his ears and almost screamed himself. The shriek cracked, thank the four; shattered into frantic, hysterical sobs. 

Like a coward, Jensen broke for his spot, running like wolves were after him, crashed through the door to his cubby and threw himself on the cot, burying his face in his blanket—twisting it around his head and body and burrowing into the flat mattress. The screaming resumed, overlaid with people shouting, doors slamming, footsteps rushing up and down the halls. He heard Jim thunder past his door, calling to a roomgirl to _"Get Mark and—and Eric! Tell them come to Master Gerolt's suite—now!"_

Jensen slid off his cot, hitting the floor on his knees. He bent, curling, until his forehead touched the tiles. He wanted to, but he couldn't, he couldn't just hide away. Millie was a decent person, who did the best she could, like all of them did, to have some kind of life, to give her toddler some degree of safety and happiness...it was definitely in her character to sacrifice herself for her child. Jen's eyes filled with tears, but he pulled himself upright; searching through his clothing drawer, he found a card he'd saved from Mistress's funeral...it depicted clouds, with a single star casting beams of light. He tucked it in a pocket in the waistband of his pants and headed for the place that was the thralls' heart of the house—the kitchen. Jim might be their head, but it was 'Cook who kept them breathing and sane—or at least as sane as was possible. He'd go, offer to help with the body, or help comfort the toddler, or...anything he could. 

He was just passing the rear staircase, the one used by day staff to move quickly between the downstairs and the master's suites, when a commotion at the top of the stairs made him stop. A sort of muffled, animalistic, shrieking stood his hair on end, and then Jim appeared on the staircase, followed by Mark, Nurse, and Jake, and even Eric. Jensen backed away from the stairs, turned towards the kitchen, and froze in shock. He'd never seen this before, ever. 

Waiting at the kitchen, crowding the hallway, was masterCook, masterGardener, Landsman, and master Husbandman, 'Handler, even masterTech, who wasn't really part of the staff in that way. The assistant Houseboy was noticeably absent, as well as masterMaid. They all looked towards Mark and 

Mark charged past him, carrying a small, sheet-wrapped bundle. It was blood-soaked, and dripping more as he stormed past. His face was thunderous with anger—so deeply, darkly, furious that Jensen was terrified, as if Mark had suddenly transformed into some ancient, fire-wreathed god on his way to destroy the world. 

Jensen backed up out of the way of what looked like the entire estate pouring down the stairs. The muffled shrieking revealed itself to be Millie, with a wad of cloth jammed in her mouth. She was half-naked, her eyes long past looking at the real world. Her wrists and ankles trailed blood behind her; she wore a toothed choke collar of the kind used to train hunting dogs and more blood made a necklace around her throat. Annie stopped them, tried to reach out for collar, but Millie cracked her head against the poor roomgirl's. Annie staggered back from her, yelping in shock and pain; Millie kept on fighting against the ones who held her, screaming into the ball of red-soaked fabric. 

Landsman appeared out of nowhere, the old man pushing Jensen against the wall out of the way of the frantic staff. 

"Move aside, young roomgirl," he muttered, mistaking Jen for one of the house staff and patted Jen's shoulder in a way he probably thought was comforting when he caught Jen's eyes on the gag in Millie's mouth. "We have to keep her muffled, you see, so as not to draw more attention to her. And now, I have to shoo my people back to their places before the master notices his entire estate is here under the stairs."

He left Jensen standing there, devastated by the awful knowledge that the shapeless little bundle of blood-soaked material had been Millie's girl. 

He spun around and vomited violently against the stone wall, thinking distantly that bare stone was easier to clean than velvet drapes and wool carpets. Jen came back to himself, on his knees, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He stood, shaken but determined. Right now, he was going to help 'Cook and the nurse in whatever way he could. He'd help clean and prepare Millie's daughter. And then, he'd light candles and ask the gods to turn a comforting eye to the thralls who had to clean Gerolt's suite—if they felt moved to pay attention to what was for them less than a blink of in eons of time.

In the morning, the knick knack came, and took two body-bags away. 

Since the state was still straddling the line between the new law and the old, Gerolt was visited by officers of the law. An investigation was started, but in the end, it was determined that since both thralls had been bornthralls, Gerolt was only obligated to pay the state a fine.  
The entire "investigation" lasted a total of three hours, less time than it took to get the two thralls out of Gerolt's suite, to the bath hall where the bodies were cleaned and re-wrapped, and from there the knick knack man took them, and hopefully they were burned and not fed to the pigs, but no thrall on the estate would ever know….

Jared was owed _wergeld_ of course, since the thralls were owned by him by inheritance right, and not property of Gerolt. Gerolt would have to deposit one hundred and fifty dollars into Jared's account. And with that, the matter was closed.

* * * 

It took no more than two days for the estate to go back to normal—it was as if Millie and her toddler had never existed, unless one knew what to look for.

In the herb garden, there were tiny paper birds tucked in among the stems of thick green herbs….

Jensen was still waiting for Jared to return—he'd not come back since he'd left the last day of Midsummer celebration, but Jen had heard from thrall traffic he was fine, just holed up somewhere with a few masters and their toys. Jensen chewed his lip at the news. He hoped that Jared hadn't lost his sense of who he was completely. 

It was in this unsettled state of mind he came across Jake, sitting in the orchard, far from his cars and his garage. Jake looked up at him, and Jensen was taken with a bone-shaking desire to beat the hells out of him. He'd do it if he could, and then he'd bury him under that tree he sat under. His lip twisted from biting in the words he wanted to lash Jake with. He opened his mouth and stuttered to a stop when Jake leaped up and held his hands out to Jensen.

"I'm sorry," he gasped and Jensen saw how bright red and raw his eyes were. "Gods, I am so fucking sorry...that wasn't supposed to happen. I did my best—" his breath hitched and he went on, his voice low and raw. "I know you hate me," he said after a few minutes. "I hate me too, gods, you have no idea. I failed that mother and her child." 

He shuddered into silence, hunched so he seemed so small. He dragged his arm across the seemingly endless flow of tears. "Gods save us—born a slave, die a slave, fucking hells." Jake suddenly drew himself straight, and choked out a laugh. "Well now, I do miss the smell of the sea, and now's as good a time as any for me and my steam-driven girl to slip away home. See ya 'round, Lucky-boy." 

He gave Jensen a wink, and his lip lifted in a poor imitation of the leer he always gave Jensen. It was stiff and false and awful. Jake walked away and Jensen watched him go.

What Jake had said, _born a slave..._ He'd heard it said another way, all his life he'd heard, _Born a thrall, die a thrall; nothing belonged to you, not even your name,_ it was the rule of life. But slave...he'd only heard one other person use that word before.

* * * 

Later in the evening, Jensen sat with a few of the house staff, Lex and Annie, along with Eric in a rare appearance without his masterTech. "Aren't you afraid he'll run off and hurt himself?" Jen teased.

"Maybe stumble down the stairs, or chew on your boots?" Annie piped up and Eric surprised them by actually snorting a laugh—short and low, but nonetheless, genuine laughter. Coming from Eric, it was a very rare thing. 

"Stop the both of you before I beat you. I'd be in the right too," he muttered, quietly as always. They all laughed, and Mark walked in on the tail end of it. 

"Well, hello Lucky—I'm glad to see you. And yes, the rest of you as well," he said, waving off their protests. Mark walked around the table, grabbing a few pieces of boiled potato, drizzling them with bacon grease and whatever herbs 'Cook had chopped and left in a bowl for them. He sat next to Jensen before digging in with gusto. "So, Lucky, you taking care of yourself? Keeping your head above water, are ya?"

"Yes," Jensen replied, grinning and then dropping it at the very not-playful look Mark was giving him. "Yes, Mark, I am, promise," he said, looking at Mark quizzically. "Is...are _you_ okay?"  
Mark set his bowl down. "Lucky, I've never been better. Feel so damn good, I could stretch my wings and fly." 

There was a sharp clatter as 'Cook dropped one of her metal mixing bowls. "Mark, you are an idiot. Hush up, you hear?"

Mark just laughed, and eventually the other thralls joined in, though Lex fixed him, and then Jensen, with a narrow-eyed squint. "Jen," he said, "Come over here and sit with me." 

Mark laughed again and walked around the table, looped an arm around Lex's neck, and rubbed his cheek against his. Ignoring the way the man blushed deep red, he whispered into his ear, "I would never hurt little Lucky, I promise. I love him." 

He looked up at Jensen's squeak of surprise. "I do. You know, once we got past our rough start, I realized something. You remind me of my little brother, sold off a million years ago. Never forgot him. Honored his memory by loving you, Luck—Jensen."

He came back around the table and stopped in front of Jensen, who smiled uncertainly when Mark cupped his cheek. "Jensen. Don't let them destroy you. Keep fighting, you hear?" He bent down and kissed Jen's cheek and walked out briskly.  
"Whatever was that all about?" Annie asked, and Jen, Cook and Lex all shrugged their shoulders and said almost as one, "No idea."

That night, pretzeled up on his cot in his cubby, drifting almost to sleep, he was startled awake by a sharp whistle, so loud it echoed in the still night. He jumped upright before settling again...probably just one of the land thralls calling after a dog, or some goats that had wandered...it was silent after that. Very silent. Suspicion made him hurry to the narrow window of his cubby. 

He stared out into the night and saw nothing, heard nothing. Straining, he could just about make out a sound, like the wind blowing through the grass. A steady shush, shush, shush that he'd heard before—oh. _Oh!_ It was the sound of the toddlers silently dancing through the grass at the Missummer celebration. He remembered their smiles, how their eyes had been so bright—the determination on their little faces. Jake--

And suddenly everything that Jake had done with the toddlers came roaring back to memory—the games of strength and stealth; playing hide-and-go-seek, and learning to stay still and silent as little statues. Running quick and as quiet as rabbits, and learning to swim in the freezing cold stock tank—as cold as running rivers would be. He remembered them playing all over the cars, and vans, becoming familiar with them inside and out; handing tools and making small repairs and even learning to drive. All those memories flooded over Jensen, and he realized that what he'd seen as bribes; the candy, little cakes and the gifts for the mams, had been a kindness that Jake had managed right under the master's stingy, twisted, gaze. 

In fact, Jake had handed Gerlot his own nose on a platter and told him it was steak. Jake had fooled every single person on the estate and between him and Mark and surely 'Cook and probably Will, had spirited the most defenseless of them away. 

_A mari usque ad mare—_ from sea to shining sea; to the free land of Acadia, Jensen hoped, with all his heart and soul. His eyes hurt, the tears came so quickly and so hard. His heart swelled as he leaned as far out of the window as he could, knuckles going white at the fierceness of his grip on the ledge. He asked Skirnir and Eir and Freyr to forgive him. He was sad, but at the same time, happier than he'd been in quite some time, so happy that he laughed out loud. Waving good-bye with both hands, he called out into the night "All luck on you, 'til you reach the shining sea!"

In the morning, Mark's lovingly maintained, clean-as-a-whistle horse vans were gone, as was Gertrude, Jake's beautiful, toddler-maintained, steam touring car. Gone too were Jake the driver, and Mark the former assistantHouseboy turned horse handler, and every single toddler there'd been on the estate. 

~fin~


End file.
